


Book

by AnneLaurant



Category: W.I.T.C.H.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 05:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneLaurant/pseuds/AnneLaurant
Summary: Lord Cedric is a book, and Orube of Basiliade is his librarian.





	Book

**Author's Note:**

> I was doing a book-themed design, and obviously I have to write something about my current writing muse that’s book-themed too.
> 
> **Tumblr Link: **[Here!](http://annelaurant.tumblr.com/post/175538321584/book)****

Normally, Lord Cedric was a librarian, and he knew books like he knew the back of his hand.  
  
But add Orube into the equation - he was now the book and Orube was his librarian. Her eyes would read him and see through every line.  
  
She knew where to pull him, where to push him back. She could do it with or without looking. Her fingers were precise but careful, never folding dog ears and tracing over his words letter by letter.  
  
He liked being handled by her.  
  
When she opened him, her approach was never intrusive, destructive. She was plainly curious, and sometimes, her curiosity would be rewarded with extra information she did not seek.  
  
All his fault: he was not a book for all people.  
  
The last notable person who opened him left a gaping wound that took time to scar. His cover was prepped up to hide the fact his corners and pages were folded. Some pages even went messing and was replaced with blank paper. His last handler wrote a great big deal and that great big deal wasn't anything pretty; it horrified and disgusted so many people, and he was deemed a book not fit for public usage. He was controversial, and some people even thought of taking him only for their own use.  
  
And she, Orube, she would tell him, "It's not your fault. He didn't treat you well."  
  
Yet, as a book, Cedric let himself be written on and trampled upon. He let himself be vulnerable and allowed for this change to happen.  
  
(And that was how he closed himself to others and refused to budge. He bothered other readers, who put him back in distaste, or simply left him on the table without much thought. Tch. Idiots.)  
  
However, Orube... when she wrote on his pages, she would think before pressing her pen against the paper and letting ink flow. She didn't have a remarkable handwriting per se, but he appreciated her words and her stories, even anticipated them. With her writing, he could breathe.  
  
Sometimes, she would misunderstand, lose her flow, and cross words out. Sometimes, he would get annoyed and close himself, fresh ink marring his empty pages. And yet, her fingers would yearn for him, and he would yearn for her touch, pulled by a force familiar to them: a mixture of guilt, shame, and love. He'd open himself to her and she'd start anew.  
  
And if she touched him, she touched beyond words, letters, down to his heart and core. If he could, he would jump off his shelf and always stay beside her. He wouldn't want to gather dust, waiting in the bookshelf.  
  
So when she let him stay with her, when she took him off the library catalogue and threw away the borrower's card, he promised to himself he'd never be a bad book. He'd never bore her, and if he'd make her cry, it was because she was very happy.  
  
Lord Cedric was the master of the library, but Orube of Basiliade was the master of his librarian heart.


End file.
